


The Case of Preston J. Silvers

by bibliolatry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Beating with Blunt Instruments, Child Abuse, Child Death, Child Murder, Gags, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, John Doesn't, John's Just About Had Enough, M/M, Mycroft Appreciation, Sherlock Has Trouble Showing It, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, The Author Apologizes, Until He Finally Understands, flaying, possible triggers, references to rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:51:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatry/pseuds/bibliolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When four year old Preston James Silvers is found raped and murdered with no evidence leading to a suspect, Lestrade and his team turn to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of Preston J. Silvers

**Author's Note:**

> Just to let you know, I hate myself for this. I didn't want to write it, but it got wedged so deep into my brain that I had to get it out. I'm sorry.
> 
> Unedited and not Brit-picked.

The body lay partially hidden by large black bags and a skip. His bare feet and legs missing patches of skin, his genitals removed with rough slicing. His anal cavity showed signs of traumatic insertion, lube pooled between his legs and a rusty, bloodied pipe next to his body the most likely tool used. His torso and biceps were covered in a ratty t-shirt, his lower arms and face bearing the same markings as his lower body. His mouth is covered with duct tape and when Anderson removes it, a wad of paper towels is visible between his lips and teeth. The entire scene is gone over several times with the same results: _there isn't a trace of evidence as to the whom the perpetrator could be_.

"Christ, who would do such a thing?" Donovan asks as she comes to a stop beside Lestrade.

He can't reply; he's too focused on keeping the bile that's rolling around in his stomach from making an appearance and contaminating the evidence-lacking crime scene. He pulls his phone from his pocket, snaps a picture of the boys upper body and texts Sherlock.

 _We need you on this_.

The reply is immediate.

 _Be there in a few - JW_.

Lestrade thanks his lucky stars that it's John that answered Sherlock's phone. He isn't sure how Sherlock would have replied. He watches as his team goes over the scene once more before everyone steps back and waits for the arrival of Sherlock Holmes.

**⌚⌚⌚**

Three days. That's how long this file has been sitting in the center of Lestrade's desk. He opens it and goes over everything every morning when he comes in and three more times throughout his work day as well as one last time before he leaves. He's spoken with the child's parents; Gloria and Jordan Silvers appear to be kind and doting parents to their only child. She'd been unable to conceive after he'd been born due to complications during labor. He felt for them. When he'd been married, his wife had lost three; two miscarriages and one stillborn. After the stillborn, they'd been warned not to attempt anymore and she'd had her tubes tied to prevent any accidental pregnancies. 

The door to his office swings open and Sherlock and John stroll in. John sends him an apologetic smile before setting down a Styrofoam cup. He gets a whiff off coffee and shoots John an appreciative look before turning to the detective. "Have you got anything?"

Sherlock's hands shoot up and grip onto his hair, pulling it in what's surely a painful tug as he answers, "Nothing. There was so little evidence to go on at the scene and absolutely nothing else has come up since that could indicate anything other than the perpetrator was undoubtedly between the ages of fourteen and sixteen."

Lestrade's eyes bulge as he takes in this new bit of information. "And when were you planning on telling me this?"

Sherlock waves his hand about as if this is old news and should have been obvious to the DI well before Sherlock had divulged it. "The bruising on the boys upper arms indicates his abductor/rapist/murder was of mild strength so it had to be either a very weak man or an adolescent. The traces of deodorant; oh don't raise your brow at me, the traces were very nearly undetectable with the stench of garbage surrounding his body; suggest an adolescent rather than an adult. While Tom's of Maine is popular with naturalist, it is rarely used by anyone over the age of seventeen Covent Garden. Therefore, it is plausible to narrow the age bracket of the offending party to the ages of twelve to seventeen. To further narrow the field, the slight scent of 'Peace' hints closer to fourteen to sixteen years of age."

"Peace?" Lestrade asks, unable to hide the confusion in his tone.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "If you paid attention to the latest 'fads', as it were, you would know that 'Peace' is the name of a new scent by the popular brand 'Axe'."

John snorts and crosses his arms over his chest. "Oh, yes like you didn't need help figuring that bit of modern teenage infatuations into that bulbous brain of yours."

Sherlock glares at John and Lestrade coughs to hide his amused chuckle. Leave it to Sherlock to leave out that he'd been helped in any way. "Ok, so we've narrowed the age range of the perpetrator a good bit. Have you got anything else to go on or are you just here to annoy me?"

"I never come to annoy you. You know that. John?"

John looks between the two men and gives a slight shrug before he pulls his phone from his pocket. "I was on tube today on my way back from the surgery and caught a bit of conversation between two boys. It's a bit noisy, but I managed to catch some of it with the voice recorder on my phone." He pushed play and Lestrade held his breath as he leaned forward to listen.

" _It was easy_ ," one garbled voice could barely be heard over the noise of other commuters and general noise of the tube itself. " _He barely even put up a fight_."

" _I told you, the younger the better. Here's our stop_ ," another replied and the sounds of the tube pulling to a stop and the doors sliding open could be heard before the recording cut off.

"I know there's not much to be going on with, but I've got a bit of a description. It may not even be our guy, but he's obviously done something to someone much younger than these two were."

Lestrade nods and picks up his phone. "I need forensic artist to interrogation room three as quickly as possible. No, it's not a suspect. Shut up and get me an artist. Now."

**⌚⌚⌚**

"I don't have to answer to anything," the boy was quite young, roughly fourteen years of age. His black hair fell straight across his left eye. His eyes were a deep brown and his skin perfectly clear of any blemishes. He was a bit tall for his age and rather slender, but the muscle tone was obvious once he'd removed his hooded sweatshirt. "Where's my lawyer?"

"You're parents will be here shortly, Mr. Fordham. We'll talk legal representation then. For now, just sit back and relax. Can I get you something to drink?" Donovan asks as she moves towards the door to the interrogation room.

The youth sneers at her, eyes roaming over her body. "All I want is for you to get the bloody fucking hell out of my face, stupid cunt."

Donovan bites her tongue and lets it roll off her back. The camera is recording, so she'll at least get to slam the prick with verbally abusing an officer of the law. May only get him community service for a day or two, but it'd be something. She leaves the room and enters the next door over. Inside, Sherlock, John and Lestrade stand side-by-side. She bites her tongue again to keep from releasing the chuckle as she takes in their forms. All three men are standing with their feet shoulder width apart and their arms crossed over their chests. Each man is wearing nearly identical looks of disdain aimed towards the youth on the other side of the two-way mirror, though Sherlock's is far more subtle than the other two. They turn to her as she closes the door behind herself.

"How long till the parents arrive?" Lestrade asks, dropping his arms to his sides.

"If they come at all? I'd said twenty to thirty minutes at a minimum," Donovan replies and John shoots her a confused look before turning back to the hushed conversation he's having with Sherlock.

"That bad, are they?" Lestrade asks as she moves to stand beside him and they both turn back to the mirror and look in at the boy who's eyes roam the room. He's not showing a hint of fear or remorse for whatever misdeed John managed to catch a half-arsed confession to.

"They didn't seem interested at all, honestly. I don't think they gave the slightest bit of a damn what he does."

Sherlock nods at something John says that's just under Donovan's range of hearing before turning to the two officers. "He's the one."

They both turn to look at him, Donovan ready to call him on his bullshit when she notices John's rigid frame and barely concealed look of horror. She raises a brow at him but he says nothing and leaves the room. "What's up with him?" she asks instead.

"Nothing for you to concern yourself with, Donovan. Lawrence Fordham is your perpetrator. If you let me speak with him, I'll get you a confession that no one would be able to fight against the validity of."

Lestrade looks to Donovan. "Going to be a bit before his parents arrive, you said?"

She nods, a small smirk appearing at the corners of her lips. She may not be fond of the freak, but his methods create results and they need results. "Lunch?" she asks Lestrade and follows him out of the room.

**⌚⌚⌚**

"I was bored, okay," Fordham yells. He's standing across the table from Sherlock, who's sitting with one leg crossed over the other and his arms crossed over his chest, a look of absolute boredom etched onto his face. "You're nearly as intelligent as I am, so you shouldn't be having so much trouble comprehending what I'm saying to you."

"Oh, I'm not having any trouble understanding what you're saying. I just don't understand how boredom led to the rape and murder of a four year old boy," Sherlock replies, his face scrunching up in his best mimicry of confusion.

"Simple," Fordham breathes out as he returns to his seat. "Alex and I, that's my best friend, had been discussing ways to stave of the tedium of every day life when he brought up a great passion he had, until then, refrained from informing me of. He told me in avid detail how exciting it was to take little girls and boys that had wandered from their mummies and daddies and find a nice secluded alley and fuck them into submission. He told me all about how he'd stuff his tie or some random bit of garbage he'd found down the little brats throat. Latex gloves and condoms work wonders for minimizing evidence and ensuring you clean up after yourself helps as well. I was intrigued, wanted to try it for myself. The first time, a six year old girl, I found I wasn't too fond of girls. After that, I stuck with boys, and oh was that a wonderful feeling. I'd lube them up nice and slick, use my fingers to make it a bit easier, and shove my dick in their arse and fuck them hard. It felt so goddamned good I couldn't help but consider what possibilities would improve the situation. That's when the knife came into play. It was accidental, really. I'd taken a boy, was fucking him real good, and he cut himself on a bit of glass. Good thing I'd gagged him, that was one hell of a scream. But I realized the blood, oh that glorious _blood_ , made it all the better. I started bringing a small switchblade with me. I'd cut into them, learned to flay and make the pain last and keep them conscious longer. The struggles part of the fun, you know. I hadn't meant to kill that last one. Didn't realize he'd stopped breathing; didn't catch on to the fact that the tape wasn't set right and he couldn't breath through his nose like I'd made sure of for the others. Shame, really, but that's life."

He'd said it all with such nonchalance, almost as if he were giving a report on the current Prime Minister. Sherlock works hard to keep his repulsion from showing. He wonders, not for the first time since he'd discovered this boy was the one that had committed the crime and, apparently, seven others that were quite similar in nature (only without the death), whether or not he'd have traveled this same road without Mycroft's pestering. His brother's an imposing arse at the best of times, but he certainly kept Sherlock from being bored often enough throughout the years that the younger Holmes had been able to improve his deducting capabilities and, eventually, become who he essentially is today. It had taken a good three hour long talk to get John to understand why he'd said he could sort of sympathize with this little tosser. Once he'd made it clear enough, John had proceeded to type up and email and order a bottle of wine, of the best sort and with Sherlock's bank card, and have it sent to Mycroft's home address.

"And this Alex," Sherlock sneers the name, "is aware that you've gone so far?"

"Oh yes," Fordham ensures. "He got a good wank out of it, too. He's a good fuck, as well. Nearly as good as those tight, virgin arseholes."

Sherlock nods, stands and makes his way towards the door. "Good thing he's out there and you're in here, then. Wouldn't want him winding up in the same situation."

"What the bloody hell does that mean?"

"Well, you've just confessed your whole story. You're a young, pretty thing. You're likely to last," he pauses for a moment, head tilted as he considers, "twenty-two hours before you're thrown down and raped where you're going."

"Fuck no, you've got no proof."

"Come now, Fordham. That camera's not just for looks."

Fordham's face goes pale. "I'll make you a deal. I'll tell you everything about what Alex has told me..."

"I really don't care," Sherlock cuts him off and leaves the room.

**⌚⌚⌚**

"I can't believe you got the other one too," Lestrade sighs. They've just come from arresting Alexander Speight, seventeen years of age, for the rape of nine boys and four girls raging from four years to nine years in age. It had taken a lot of hours to go through three years worth of rape reports, the boys had hidden their crime streak well. Two fewer pedophiles on the loose.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment before turning and leaving his office. John remains, one arm crossed over his waistline and the elbow of the other resting on the back of his hand. His hand is tucked in front of his mouth, the knuckles resting just below his nose. He's staring at the wall over Lestrade's shoulder, eyes distant. Lestrade doesn't know if he realizes Sherlock's left or not and isn't really sure he wants to disturb John's thoughts. he waits a few moments more and is just on the verge of saying something when John finally speaks.

"They were bored," he says and Lestrade gives a subtle nod.

"That's what they claimed, yes."

"If Mycroft hadn't been there to intervene with Sherlock's life, where do you think he'd be now. He's so smart, his brain moves so fast; where would he be right now if he'd had no one to guide him, even if it is in a manipulating manner?"

Lestrade stares at John for a moment and just shrugs. "Haven't got a clue. I couldn't even tell you if he'd have started doing drugs or not. The way those Holmes brothers work is beyond me. I do know that they've taken the paths that they've taken and they're were they are now because of it. I don't think the world could have handled either of them if they were on the other side."

John snorts out a laugh and immediately cuts it short. It's really no laughing matter. "I can't help but wonder, if he'd ended up somewhere different, being someone different, would we have met? Would I be here, having this conversation with you, now?"

Lestrade shrugs again. "Whatever would have happened, we are where we are now, John. Life's funny in that you can't go back and explore the other roads that you may have taken. We are who and where we are because of the choices we made and the outside forces that influenced those decisions. Be grateful for what you do have, John. Don't question it."

John nods and rises from the chair. He stretches his arms over his head and lets out a noisy yawn. "I'm exhausted. I'm going to head home and try to get some rest. Think I may call in sick tomorrow at the clinic. I'll talk to you later, yeah?"

Lestrade nods and give John a little wave as he heads out the door. He lays his hands flat on the top of his desk and stares at the wall across from him for a moment. _Sherlock as a criminal_ , he shivers at the thought and once again thanks the powers the be for putting Sherlock Holmes on the path that lead to him becoming a consulting detective, even if he had to go through years of drug use and rehabilitation before it actually stuck.

**⌚⌚⌚**

"Sherlock," Mycroft is sitting in a plush, burgundy wing-backed chair when Sherlock enters his sitting room. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I just," Sherlock pauses, bites back the rude, witty retort he wants to use so he can get this over with and leave before it makes him vomit with all the sentiment swirling through his entire being. "Thank you."

Mycroft raises his head and eyes his brother warily. "Pardon me?"

"You heard me, Mycroft," Sherlock reigns himself in, bites back on the bitter sibling rivalry that's ingrained in their very beings. "Thank you, for everything. Without you, I don't know who I'd be today and I'm not sure I'd like who that person may have been."

Mycroft stares at him for a moment before tilting his head in acknowledgement. Sherlock leaves as swiftly as he appeared, missing the small smile of affection that graces his brothers lips.


End file.
